


I Remember

by Blaiser



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Anal Sex, Blood, Character Death, Choking, Dark, Flashbacks, Insanity, M/M, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Semi-Canonical Character, Sexual Violence, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 10:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8323585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blaiser/pseuds/Blaiser
Summary: Alternate ending for the last scene with Chisolm and Bogue.This is dark! Please do read the warnings.





	

The wounded man drags himself along the floorboards of the burned out church, heaving a groan with each movement of his limbs. A few feet inside the ruin he rolls onto his back and makes the sign of the cross, as if trying to summon some invisible barrier that will serve as protection against the man who follows him.

“In nomine patris et spiritus sanctum”, he exclaims and looks out through the doorframe at his stalker, “YOU A GOD-FEARING MAN!?!” His words, utterly devoid of dignity, comes blurting out of his mouth in between short, heaving breaths.

The pursuer halts and removes his hat, then looks down at the ground considering whether or not he actually is such a thing. A long moment of silence passes before he returns the hat on his head and proceeds to walk up the stairs; his slow, heavy footsteps like a deafening thunder against the worn out floorboards.

 _Fuck_. Bogue utters a strained moan, shifts back onto his stomach and begins to haul himself forward by weak arms, leaving behind a thin trail of blood caused by the bullets Chisolm put in him a mere moment ago. He is already a doomed man, but not because of the piece of lead buried deep in his thigh just above the kneecap, or the gaping hole in his gun-hand large enough to push a penny through. No, Bogue has been dying for a long time before those painful wounds were inflicted upon him, and even before becoming aware of the threat Sam Chisolm's existence represented.

He had prepared himself to die in a bed six months from now, or perhaps if fortune decided to smile upon him, a year. The doctors had all assured him there was nothing left for him to do, but wait for his heart to give in to the sickness spreading mercilessly throughout his body, eating away organs, bones and flesh like fire would devour a dry bush during an Oklahoma summer. There would be no one gathered around his bed to see him off to the other side, but that part of dying is alright Bogue figures; the absence of people to judge him in his last agonizing weeks, days and hours is in fact quite the relief.

No one by his side to see his weakness on display and his rapidly dwindling figure, his bodily functions uncontrolled, but most importantly there will be no one there to bare witness to the coward he knows he will become when death finally comes a-knockin'. Bogue wants to be remembered as an industrialist magnate, a proud, confident man staring death in the face without fear; not as a piece of chickenshit, scared out of his mind from the prospect of facing the Lord so tragically prematurely, and having to answer for his earthly transgressions.

At this very moment however, it seems as if he doesn’t have to be burdened by such worries for much longer. Death is fed up waiting for nature to take its course and craves Bouge's one hundred and fifty pounds of sickly flesh a lot sooner than expected, and if that wasn't enough fuckin' hardship to deal with in itself, there might not even be no getting-to-die-alone either. With wide, timid eyes he whips his head around and catches a glimpse of the gunslinger's face, stern and determined and without a trace of pity. A long shadow, thrown onto the floor by the sunlight is casting its looming darkness over Bogue, who starts screaming pitifully in a high-pitched voice, trembling with fear of the approaching figure and its obvious ill intent. 

“Please...just... _please!_ ”.

Chisolm slows down to fully take in the sight of the panicked murderer crawling away from him. He finds it is not entirely unpleasurable to behold.

“Please! please! please!”, Bogue begs again, but receives no other response to his pleas than a few hard kicks to his legs and rear, urging him forward as if he is nothing but a lazy dog being ordered to move by its master.

Despite the sharp pain in his leg and Chisolm's terrorizing frame right at his heels, Bogue manages to pick up speed and hurries to the small plateau where the reverend used to preach each Sunday before Bogue's hired thugs set fire to the church, subsequently making an enemy of every single man, woman and child in Rose Creek and bringing the problem of the seven gunslingers down upon him. A few of the occupants were killed in the process but that was their own damned fault, not his. They should not have resisted the inevitable. 

The sheep gives, the wolf takes. A fundamental law of nature and very propitious for everyone involved (well ok, maybe not _everyone_ ) when the herd of lesser beings accepts their roles as subservients, but when they do not, the Master has to dispose of the rebellious individuals to ensure the rest will fall in line. He had worked so hard to build his empire, and he wasn’t about to let a few dozen simpletons stand in his way of expanding it further and thereby destroying his legacy. Not a chance in hell.

The Robber Baron had been his epithet; the visionary industrialist infamous for making life miserable for anyone foolish enough to cross him. With callous indifference to human suffering he was feared and loathed wherever he conducted his business, but despite the fact that everyone around him was a potential enemy whether they be driven by a lust for his fortune or a need for revenge, no one posed any real threat when it came down to it; not even the politicians in the towns he lay bare efter draining their surrounding lands of their riches dared to oppose him (most officials were in his pocket anyway); Bogue and his regime was simply too powerful to mess with and to do so meant certain death.

Well...that was until Chisolm showed up and ruined everything. Now, Bogue was the one who pleaded for his life, crawling away from his nemesis on his belly like a cowardly worm, just as he himself had made so many people crawl and bow and scrape during his reign on the rampant frontier.

“Please, I beg your pardon” Bogue sniffles as he turns around and places his rear on the plateau, hoping to evoke some sort of merciful mechanism in Chisolm if he lingers beneath the cross suspended from the ceiling above; its presence working as a reminder to the gunslinger that the church is a place of worship, that a higher being is bearing witness to whatever is about to transpire between them and getting ready to hand out judgement for any wrongful acts committed against a fellow christian.

He looks up at the bounty hunter with huge eyes, pleading for clemency. "I've done you wrong!"

Chisolm meets his gaze with a mask drained of emotion, but underneath the apparent staleness he is suppressing a deadly wrath that longs for nothing more than to wallow in Bogue's blood. The murderers cold sweating skin is as pale as alabaster, a sickening shade that reveals the man is dying already and that Chisolm's plans are unnecessary when it comes to bringing forth his demise. Bogue will be dead before long any which way Chisolm chooses to proceed with his endavour, and yet the fact of his enemy's imminent natural fate matters none. This is something that needs to be finished by him not by Mother nature. 

 _Look at him..._ , he hears a female's voice behind him, but does not turn around for he knows that no one is there. 

He remembers the sudden stretch of his neck as his body is pulled upwards by the rope, his legs kicking at the empty air. The laughter of despicable men mixed with the sound of crackling flames resonates in his ears. Nearby, someone starts shouting angrily then the sound of gunfire follows. Chisolm's vision blurs and he slips into unconsciousness.

 _Mama?_ He sails into the darkness, drifting down a river made of fluffy clouds.  _Mama, are you there!?!_  he hollers into the abyss, but receives no answer.

When Chisolm comes to, he is laying on his back on the ground the limp rope dangling from the branch above him. Gentle hands removes the noose from around his neck and opens his collar, allowing him to take a few deep heaving breaths. "Ma..mama? wher...Abiga an..une.?", the words hardly recognizable comes out between the wheezing and spluttering sounds from his throat.

Around them people are screaming, some for help, others for more water. A thick smoke fills the air as flames devours the town houses all around making Chisolm feel like he is trapped in the middle of the devil's inferno.

“I’m so sorry Sam", the man says, "Sara is gone, and the girls...Lord, help us all, there was nothing we could do"

She has been by his side ever since that day, whispering in his ear, lending her advice whether it is needed or not. Although his mother’s voice seems soothing to his soul, a searing headache always follows it. Ever since he heard the name, Bartholomew Bogue, uttered from the lips of the Rose Creek widow, her presence inside his mind has been constant and so has a skull-shattering pain alongside it. Emma Cullen wanted revenge for her husband's murder and Chisolm understood her inner turmoil her need for blood to be spilled, perhaps even better than she herself did. 

 _Look at that pathetic creature_ , the silvery voice says, _he realizes his time has come. That the Lord’s punishment is upon him today and my son will be the one to deliver it._ Mother wants revenge and it is up to Chisolm to take it; to administer the long overdue justice upon her murderer that she herself cannot.

He plants a boot on the plateau and looks down at Bogue who is trying to avert his gaze. Something about that small-featured, plump face with its sunken eyes reminds him of a sickly child but he quickly dismisses the thought from his mind. The devil has many faces and deceit is his specialty after all...

What better mask is there to hide behind than innocence?

“I want you to pray with me”, he says softly and reaches his hand out, an open palm welcoming Bogue's touch.

As Bogue looks up meeting his gaze, his child-like face morphs from a look of pure terror to one brimming with hate all in the blink of an eye. He doesn't speak a word but he doesn't have to, Chisolm knows what is on his mind. 

He keeps his hand stretched out in front of the murderer who studies it warily for a moment trying to decipher its meaning. 

Suddenly it seems to dawn on Bogue that the extended gesture might actually lead to a way out of his otherwise hopeless predicament, a lifesaver on the roaring river of doom he's about to drown in, and his expression changes yet again, this time imitating a heart-shattered, sorrowful man seeking redemption for his crimes.

"Come'on" Chisolm encourages with a nod of his head "Come'on, Bogue..."  

A cold, fragile hand slips into his. It has a softness to it that can only be found in piano players or rich, privileged men who have never known the hardship of manual labour. He can hear the brittle bones creak beneath the skin as he closes his hand around Bogue’s and squeezes it tightly. Chisolm has to restrain himself from breaking it. Like crushing the bones of a small bird he would hardly break a sweat if he did.

He drops down to one knee so that he can be eye to eye with his adversary.

“Ask for forgiveness. Pray”, he says, but Bogue simply shakes his head confused at the request.

Chisolm can see the wheels turning in his head, desperately searching for a way out and away from the man who now holds his life in his hands. The industrialist is not only sly but a fine actor also, like all cowards are when staring death in the face; in the current company however, Bogue's gifts as a pretender will get him nowhere.  

“Yeah, you can. Close your eyes and you pray”, he insists and tightens his grip on the man’s hand till the pale face twists in pain. “Pray for my mother that your men raped. Pray!”.

Bogue resembles a sulking little boy as he pries his hand loose from Chisolm's, enraged that his plan of gaining sympathy has failed.

“Pray for my two sisters whom your men murdered, that they strung up!”.

The voices of two young girls join his mother's. _Make him pay for what he did to us._

Their sweet laughter resonates against the inside of his skull. Innocent children whose lives were cut short by animals that gave it no more thought than stomping out the embers of a dying fire.

 _But do it slowly_ , their soft voices commands, _the way he served death to us_.

He opens the top buttons of his shirt and reveals the scar, reaped from a rope that burned into his flesh just above the collarbone so many years ago. “Do you think your men prayed to God when they put the noose around my neck?”, he asks calmly, making the Robber Baron shift uncomfortably on his rear, anger and fear flooding his being in equal amounts.

Then, in an unwise display of his nature's true colors, a defiant smirk forms on Bogue's face. “I remember…Chisolm”, he gloats and narrows his eyes at the gunslinger.

“You remember?”, Chisolm tastes his acidy words. A savage anger rising from the depths of his soul with a thousand miles per hour.

“Yeah, I remember”, Bogue repeats and nods his head.

And just like that, the beast inside bursts through the surface. Chisolm grabs the smaller man by the throat and starts squeezing the life out of him. “I said...pray!”

Bogue's blue eyes stares back at him wide with fear and surprise. Fingers are scratching at the hands squashing his windpipe but to no avail. A choked sound escapes his throat. “Killing me, won’t get you the satisfaction you want!”, he manages to croak before Chisolm cuts off his air supply entirely. Giving him a dark stare, Chisolm squeezes down on his throat harder still. Bogue’s world starts spinning. His legs are kicking weakly against the floorboards as his consciousness begins to ebb out from the lack of oxygen to his brain.

 _Too fast...slow down_ , the voices have turned into a wicked whisper,  _make him feel what Mama felt when they defiled her. They all deserve to die, but this one..._  

In death the girls have become ruthless little monsters.

 _...deserves something a lot worse_.

Chisolm loosens his grip around Bogue's throat who slumps backwards on the podium like a slap of beef. He starts to cough violently, drawing in air in long, strangled hauls. Before he can regain his focus Chisolm has grabbed him by the hips and flipped him over onto his stomach.

“What is...arghh..happening!?”, Bogue screams, wriggling under the hand on the back of his neck, pinning him to the floor.

A hand slides under Bogue’s belly and gropes at his belt.

“No! What are you doing, Chisolm!?!”. He coughs in between his frantic inquiries but the man on top of him makes no indication of putting a stop to his pursuit. The silver buckle comes open and Bogue feels fingers between his hip and the inside of his trousers, pulling them down. A gush of warm air sweeps over his naked ass. “Oh, my God, NO!”, he screams and tries to crawl forward, his fingernails scraping against the floorboards. A sound of rustling metal followed by the crushing feeling of a knee in his back. “No! no!”, his voice now high pitched and utterly desperate.

“God is not with you, is he? Not today”. Chisolm’s hand closes around his wrist and twists the arm painfully behind his back. A small whimper escapes Bogue’s lips. He tries to pull his arm free again but fails; the avenger has him trapped beneath his weight.

“Please don’t do this Chisolm. I can make you a very wealthy man….just…just name your price! Whatever it is...I can give it to you!”, he turns his face trying to make eye contact with his tormentor. Dilated pupils dark as night stares back at him from a mask drained of empathy for his suffering. What Bogue had hoped to find in those eyes is simply not there.

“Do you think this is about money?”, Chisolm sneers and twists Bogue’s arm, making him howl in pain, “huh? Do you think this is about gold or land!?”

Bogue snivels and coughs as involuntary tears begins to stream from his eyes. With his forehead resting on the dusty floor he remains still for a prolonged moment, trying to gather his remaining strength to put up one last fight. After having regained his breath, he whips his head to the side and spits at Chisolm. The attack fails as the saliva misses its mark and falls like a misty rain next to himself instead. Bogue's face twists in rage.

“Then shoot me you black bastard! Send me straight to hell! I’m sure your whore of a mother awaits me there!”

With a violent pull on the arm, Chisolm dislocates his elbow. An otherworldly scream fills the church ruin followed up by Bogue pitifully crying. With his hold on the now limp wing the gunslinger twists it back even further, threatening a breakage of the bone.

“ _ARGHHH!!!_ I’m sorry! I’m sorry! sorry!”, Bogue screams repeatedly, his nose squashed flat against the floor.

Chisolm feels himself grow hard at the display of his helpless enemy, so submissive and fully at his mercy. The revenge he has been dreaming of for years, only a snap of the neck or a bullet through the heart away. In a second it could all be over if he wished it to be, but he happens to have other plans for Bogue. The choir of victims in his head has asked a final thing of him and he must comply with their request even though he knows what he is about to do is horribly wrong. The intensity of the headache is stronger than ever, and Chisolm feels a nosebleed could be due at any moment.

He lets go of the now useless arm that flops down next to its whimpering owner. Chisolm opens his trousers, pulls out his cock and lets his knee slide in between the man’s legs, spreading them a little to make room. As he places his member along the cleft of Bogue's ass the body beneath him turns rigid.

“No! No! What are you doing!?! In God’s name...what is this!?!”

 _Make him pay for everything. God will forgive you._ It is the girls again.

 _Yes_ , his mother concurs, _the Lord has closed his eyes for a purpose...the Devil must be cleansed from this man._

“Be quiet!”.

Chisolm reaches around Bogue’s neck and grabs ahold of his tie. Loosening the knot, he forces the fabric into his mouth like a gag and secures the ends at the back of his head, transforming wails and cries into muffled whimpers instead.

“Now, I will share some of the pain my people suffered, cause´ you…”, he presses a finger hard against the back of the man’s skull, “decided to trade their lives in for money”. A hand trails down Bogue’s thigh reaching the bullet wound where a thin streak of blood is oozing out. Coating his fingers with the warm fluid, Chisolm grabs ahold of his member and applies it along the shaft with long, slow strokes. Behind the gag Bogue is making frantic protests, the fingernails on his functioning hand clawing at the wooden boards trying to escape.

Chisolm positions himself against Bogue's hole and pushes hard against it with his blood-lubed cock, trying to breach through the tight ring of muscle. The man makes a loud squeal then bucks like a rodeo bull, desparate to throw the rider off its back. With a firm grip on his neck, Chisolm holds him in place while forcing himself deeper into his insides. Finally, the head of his cock slips inside the warm velvety glove, tight and soft at the same time. Bogue gasps and his eyes bulge out, then he begins to wail.

“Do you think God is here now? Huh, Bogue?” Chisolm whispers into his enemy's ear with a sneer.

He pushes deeper into the man while studying the part of his face visible to him. The pale tone of Bogue’s skin has turned pink and his eyes are wild, rolling around in their sockets. The tightening sensation around his cock makes his balls tingle, and had this been sex he might have enjoyed it a lot more than he does...but this is not _sex_. This is revenge.

The last of his length is forced inside with great strain. Chisolm feels the warmth coming from Bogue’s rear against his pelvis, bringing him to the brink of his climax. He inhales deeply.  _No, not yet._

The devil's breathing has turned into rapid, shallow pants. His eyes are blank as if he’s staring into the emptiness of space. The gunslinger’s mouth curls into a bittersweet smile. Then he starts to rock back and forth, pulling Bogue out of his imaginary sanctuary and back into the real world where more pain awaits him. The rhythmic breaths in his ear speeds up as Chisolm is pounding away at his flesh like a percussion drill. Bogue can feel his strength ebb out, his vision blurring as his insides are ripped apart by the merciless avenger on top of him.

It barely registers when the rapist stops moving and pulls the gag out from his mouth, the tie falling heavy down around his neck, soaked in his spittle. Bogue coughs and heaves for the air to fill his lungs. Chisolm's cock is still buried deep within him, its presence as agonizing as were it a flaming sword impaling him.

“Oh my God, no”, he whispers in a weak, trembling voice, “please, no more…stop...”.

Chisolm retracts his hand from Bogue’s neck so that the man can lift his head up a little. “Do you have any last words, Bogue? Now would be the time to make good with the Lord”.

The murderer snivels. Small tremors of flesh and twitches of muscles are sending pleasurable vibrations through Chisolm’s cock making his groin area throb with a desperate need for release.

“I don’t know...what it is you want me to say”, Bogue blurts and starts crying uncontrollably; a sad, pathetic sound that almost makes Chisolm reconsider his final venture.

_No! Don’t you dare forget, you hear! What he did to them! No one heard their prayers, no one showed them mercy!_

“I’m sorry? God forgive me! I’m sorry!”, he sobs. A small puddle of tears has gathered on the floorboards where his face used to be, “I’m sorry…sorry…”.

Chisolm leans forward and embraces his enemy, covering the trembling body with his own. The smaller man’s skin feels so cold, life is running out of him like the sand through an hourglass. “If God forgives me...he will forgive you; my sins are as great as yours”, he whispers in Bogue’s ear and runs a hand gently through his short, perspiration soaked hair. 

Whimpering and snivelling, Bogue nods his head once.

“I’m so sorry! sorry! sorry! Oh, God, please!”, he whispers repeatedly and turns his head to make eye-contact with Chisolm who stares back at him for a prolonged moment, giving his victim time to adjust to the idea of his imminent fate.

“Are you ready?”, the avenger asks, and Bogue closes his eyes praying to any God that might take mercy on him.

Chisolm grabs ahold of the tie and tightens it around his neck. Bogue starts to thrash and jitter as he instinctively fights for his life, weak fingers scratches in blind panic at the thin piece of fabric strangling him. The sound of Bogue’s windpipe slowly being crushed is making the orgasm spread through Chisolm’s body like wildfire through a dried-up plain. 

He comes hard and long inside Bogue with a tortured roar, tightening his grip on the fabric around the throat until he hears the dull snap of breaking bone. Chisolm slumps forward with eyes closed, burying his face in the curve of the man's neck. The body jitters against him a few times.

 _Thank you, Brother._ The girls are back, the monsters gone. _Freedom._

The playful laughter of children fades in his mind. He sees them running across the poppy field, hand in hand. They turn around and each sends him a blinding smile.

_See you soon...we'll be waiting._

When he opens his eyes again, Bogue has stopped moving. Chisolm untangles his hand from the tie and pulls himself out from the man’s insides.

 _I love you._ Mother is in the field also, moving through the poppies behind the girls. The breeze makes her dress flap gently against her slim frame as she comes towards him.  _Come home._ Her hand is stretched out, urging him to take it.

He pulls up his trousers, a tear trailing down his cheek as he does so. Then he turns to Bogue, pulling his up also and flips the dead man onto his back. In death the murderer looks like a mauled ragdoll, thrown to the curb by an ungrateful child, eyes staring dejectedly into his. Chisolm adjusts Bogue’s clothes then sweeps a hand down his face, closing his eyes. He wraps his own hand around Bogue’s and clenches it against his chest.

_*Forgive me Father, for my sins. For my need for vengeance, my weaknesses…*_

_Do not worry. The Lord forgives._ Mother whispers soothingly.

_*But most of all...forgive me for what I’m about to do and grant me the rest I yearn for*_

He folds Bogue’s hands on his stomach and lays down next to the corpse. Chisolm pulls the hammer of his revolver back until he hears death whisper from somewhere inside the chamber. His mother is there with him in the midst of the poppies, holding his hand and placing a kiss on his forehead.

Chisolm puts the barrel against his temple.

_Here, baby...here...take my hand._

He pulls the trigger, a flash of fire, and his world turns into merciful darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> I chose to make Chisolm a bit brain damaged in this fic, an injury he has suffered from the lynching.


End file.
